After the War, Forgetting Ron
by Kaitaloipa
Summary: Hermione was supposed to be with Ron, not Harry. Sadly, in the final battle, Ron died. Battling guilt and grief in the aftermath of a triumphant war, Harry and Hermione learn to live again, together. H/Hr eventually, though never a fully happily-ever-after. (The Shire should be saved, but not for the hero himself.) 5,6,7 disregarded, sort of; Epilogue disregarded, definitely.
1. Chapter 1

After the war ended, the celebrations filled the Wizarding World. For the second time in 17 years, witches and wizards forgot their habitual secrecy and mingled openly in the streets, bewildering Muggles everywhere by their manners and dress.

There was one wizard notably absent from these celebrations. His name was Harry Potter. He had won the war, but far as he was concerned, he had just lost everything.

* * *

><p>"You'll be expected to deliver a speech at the inauguration of the new Minister of Magic, Harry," Hermione told him, at his bedside at St. Mungo's.<p>

She was not looking at him. It was the first time they had seen each other since the fighting ended. She clutched a notepad in one arm and her bushy hair was pulled back into a businesslike braid. Her face was drawn and tired, as if she too had forgotten how to sleep.

"Er-" said Harry, "I don't think-"

"I've written out a few ideas," Hermione said, ignoring him. Her voice was determinedly light and brisk, as if they were merely going over potions homework. "They're here. Do you want to go over them or shall you just pick one?"

"Are you sure they'll ask-"

"Yes," said Hermione. "I've been told to inform you. In other cases it would have been Dumbledore, but-"

Instead of finishing this sentence, she handed over the notepad.

"You're the war hero," she said. "It's important that you endorse him."

A stray glance at the notepad allowed phrases to leap out at him: _fought long and hard, _and _peace at last, _and _the memories of our lost friends. _

He felt a sort of panic rising. It's supposed to be over by now, he thought. It was bad enough to have fought the war: but surely not make speeches about it afterwards as well?

"I'm not-"

"You can do this, Harry," she said, her voice becoming gentler, but at the same time more firm. It was a familiar tone: it was the one she had used for the past three years when Harry didn't think he could push himself any farther, but must.

Unbidden, he heard what had been Ron's habitual counterpoint during the war: "Let him rest, for once, Hermione."

Then he realized that Hermione's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. She, too, must have remembered Ron's voice.

He thought of saying sorry - of apologizing for having left them, for having pushed on in that last, decisive campaign in which everything had been at once won and lost - but it was too hard to speak. He looked down, fixated on Hermione's draft speeches, as Hermione cried silently at the foot of his bed. She turned away to wipe her eyes.

"I like the third one," Harry said, after she had seemed to collect herself.

"Oh good," she said, with ready relief. Harry had the impression she was glad for the distraction. "Yes, I thought you might like that one best."

"Shortest," Harry grunted.

Hermione let out a small gulp of laughter and rubbed her eyes again.

* * *

><p>Over the next few weeks, Harry felt he was living for two things: the inauguration, and the funeral. He knew that he was well enough, by now, to be discharged from St Mungo's, but he could not bring himself to leave. The only home had ever really had had been Hogwarts; he would not go back to the Dursleys' - but if not there, then where? The dark, empty Grimmauld Place, where he would think of his dead godfather? Even the Weasleys', now, was tainted.<p>

He had a steady stream of visitors, though it slowed to a trickle as people began to resume normal life. He had not much liked the effort it took talking to them, because there had been so little to say, and they usually either came to mourn with him, which hurt, or to celebrate, which he did not know how to do. With the Weasleys', it was the worst.

Hermione was one of the only visitors he could face without effort. After their first meeting, she had begun to visit almost daily. She did not cry again, and they did not speak about Ron. She was living in her parents' flat in London: they were still in Australia, ignorant of the existence of their daughter. Her solution to sorrow seemed to have been to throw herself into the work of restoration. Her visits were full of stories of the Ministry, of reparations, of war tribunals. It was difficult to decipher what her official role was: like many of the youngest of the Order, she seemed to have risen to prominence in the postbellum order, and shared the organizational burdens of restoration with the few surviving leaders of the war.

When they ran out of things to talk about - which usually meant when Hermione ran out of things to say, because Harry had very little to contribute - she would pull out a book to read to him, or a game to pass the time. The books and games were largely Muggle: Harry appreciated it, because they were not connected to any memories of Ron. They never played chess.

Occasionally, prompted by their Muggle entertainments, they would share memories of their years before Hogwarts. Speaking of the Dursleys was almost pleasant now, in comparison with the dull ache that came with any memories of Hogwarts, which could not be separated from Ron. It was almost comforting to remember his cupboard and Dudley. Hermione listened to his stories with an expression of mingled horror and amusement. She spoke of her own home less often.

Hermione would stay until St Mungo's visiting hours ended. Harry suspected that she dreaded time alone in her flat as much as he dreaded returning to Grimmauld Place.

* * *

><p>The funeral had not been an urgent matter. Hermione had not been able to retrieve his body, and so the stone in the Weasley's backyard marked only keepsakes. Harry had never heard Hermione speak of the night Voldemort fell, though he knew, from what he heard from healers at St Mungo's, that she had been treated for injuries of torture. He also knew, from the timing of her reappearance, Ron's death, and his own mission, that she had been there when he was killed.<p>

The funeral was small - the only non-Weasleys were Harry, Hermione and the members of the Order with whom Ron had worked most closely - Tonks, Mad-Eye, and the new Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry had known, all along, that Ron's stone would be next to Fred's, but it still felt like a blow to the stomach when he saw the two side by side.

Two. _How did this happen?_

Harry thought of the countless vacations he had spent amidst the Weasley household. It had been the closest to a real family he had ever known, and they had welcomed him without question. Now, they stood wan and silent in their garden, two of their sons gone forever.

Mrs Weasley had hugged him when he arrived, and Ginny had kissed him on the cheek, but the sorrow in the house seemed too great for anyone to remember Harry beyond this initial gesture.

He felt the shame engulfing him: _he should not be here. _I brought this curse onto their family, he thought. Just like I brought it on my own- If I hadn't been friends with Ron - If I hadn't _left them_-

Just as the pain in his chest became almost unbearable, he heard another's voice. Next to him, Hermione had let out a muffled whimper. He looked at her. She was clutching her hands to her sides tightly, her eyes filled with tears, staring at the ground. Never, not even during the worst moments of the war, had he seen her look so utterly lost. It occurred to him that he was not the only one full of guilt. He reached over and took one of her clenched hands. She looked up at him, and he saw his own shame mirrored in her eyes. Mutely, she took a step closer to him, so that they stood with their sides pressed together. He could feel her shaking.

They listened to Kingsley's eulogy pressed together, and the few inches between them and the rest of the Weasley family felt like several miles. It was a dreary, almost rainy day, and the first time Harry had stepped outside since the war ended. He breathed in the smells of the garden, gripping Hermione's hand tightly, trying to think of this moment as just one more ordeal in the war, one more place from which soon, they would escape. He could hold on, could remain silent, remain controlled, at least until he had left the Weasleys' presence. But it was all he could do to stand still, listening to Mrs Weasley's sobbing, to the boys' sniffles, to Mr Weasley's murmured comforts as he, too, fought breaking down. And all the while, Hermione clutched Harry's hand as if it were a lifeline, tears running down her face and splattering onto her scarf.

After the funeral was a blur of niceties and discomforts that Harry fumbled through in a daze. Mrs Weasley tried and failed to make tea as she broke down again, but it was made anyway by Kingsley. The living room felt menacing, full of memories of Ron, and Hermione only clutched Harry's hand tighter as they huddled in silence.

The tea seemed to take forever; Harry would have done almost anything to find a reason not to stay for it, but he knew that was impossible. And as Kingsley poured it, Mrs Weasley brought out the final blow: possessions of Ron's that she thought Harry and Hermione might like to have.

"His pocketwatch," she told Harry, handing him the nicer watch Ron had cherished but never been comfortable using. "We gave it to him on his seventeenth birthday."

Harry remembered, because he had been there. The guilt was almost overpowering. He reached out, took the watch, and clutched it with the hand that wasn't in Hermione's.

"And-"

Hermione had begun to shake badly when the watch appeared, but as she realized Mrs Weasley had turned to her, she sucked in breath so sharply it sounded painful.

"No, please," she whispered.

Mrs Weasley pressed on, determined. "We found this in his drawer. We think he must have been saving it for your birthday-"

Hermione's hands were almost pushing away the small box proffered to her, but then she controlled herself and took it. She opened it. Inside was a small, delicate necklace.

"This isn't - this can't-"

"I helped him pick it, Hermione," Ginny said, gently, from where she was seated with her hands clutching George's. "It's for you."

Hermione sucked in breath, hunched her shoulders, and nodded mutely. Harry had the impression she was having trouble breathing.

They finished their tea quickly after that - or at least Harry did, taking Hermione's from her as soon as he was done with his. He led Hermione out, bidding the Weasley's a distracted farewell, hugging the women, shaking hands with the men, until finally they were free and Hermione was practically bolting for the edge of the Burrow's property. He followed her, stopping only to look back at the lovingly ramshackle house that had been the closest thing he had for a home for so many years. He felt that he was saying goodbye yet again. It would never, he thought, be the same. They loved him, but they missed Ron more. And he would never be able to look at the Burrow without remembering what he had done to them.

The moment Hermione's feet passed through the gates of the property she bent over and began to sob - retching sobs, as if she was hoping to throw up, too. He caught her and held her, forcing her to straighten up and face him, telling her to breathe. But he could feel himself crying too.

"It was my fault," she said.

"No, Hermione-"

"You weren't there," she said.

"I shouldn't have left you-"

"You had to leave us- I could have saved him, I should have saved him- Oh-_Ron-"_

He knew that she had meant to Disapparate, and that this was why she had hurried to the edge of the Burrow property, but he realized that she did not have it in her to Disapparate any more than he did. She stood, leaning slackly against him, her head hanging.

"Look," he said bracingly. "Let's - let's walk down to the village, all right? Let's just - walk."

Hermione said dully, "What are we going to do in the village?"

Harry shrugged. "Eat Muggle food? Are you hungry?"

"No," said Hermione.

Harry had to admit that he was not hungry, either. Nevertheless he said, "Well, I am. Come with me?"


	2. Chapter 2

They followed the foot path to the village in silence, until Harry was forced to stop by his leg acting up again. It had not bothered him all through the funeral. Hermione turned to him, quizzical at his stopping, but then saw that he had gripped his knee.

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

"It's _fine, _Harry," said Hermione, pulling out her wand. She seemed flustered by his apology. "I'll just do the usual, okay?"

Harry nodded, and watched as she performed the pain-relieving spell. It had been one of their favorites; and Hermione had, of course, been best at it, when healers couldn't be found.

"Thanks," he said, feeling the tendrils of pain recede again, returning his ability to walk.

Hermione tucked away her wand. Performing magic seemed to have returned a bit of life to her: she reached out and hooked her arm into the one on his injured side, leading him on.

"I thought Mungo's was able to take care of it?"

"I thought so, too," said Harry, shrugging.

They entered the first pub they encountered, on the edge of the village, looking out over the fields. It was too early for dinner, and only a few regulars were hunched here and there, talking in low murmurs. They ordered Muggle ale and chips, which Hermione paid for, having Muggle money, and took their drinks over to an empty booth in the corner.

Harry realized after one sip that he did not like Muggle ale, and he saw, from Hermione's expression, that she did not either.

"This is foul," she said.

Harry could not help laughing at her grimace. She stared at him for a second, surprised at his reaction, and then she began to laugh too. After a moment her laughter became giggles that wouldn't stop: she put her hand over her mouth, tilted her head back, and let out gasps of almost hysterical laughter.

"Do you remember," she said, when her laughter finally stopped, and she was still staring up at the ceiling, her eyes a little wet from laughing, "what Ron looked like the first time he had firewhisky?"

Harry nodded.

Hermione's eyes were crinkling at the corners. "He had been so eager to try it... I wouldn't let him while we were prefects, remember?"

"Yeah," said Harry, whose stomach was sinking as he realized Hermione wasn't dropping the subject.

"Do you remember how-"

Hermione stopped, as she lowered her eyes to Harry's face and read his expression.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I guess you - you don't really want to talk about Ron, do you?"

Her question rang as strangely familiar, and for a moment, Harry had a memory of another girl, trying to discuss another dead boy with him over drinks, several years ago.

"I don't - usually like to talk about this sort of thing," Harry muttered, awkwardly.

He did not remember what he had said to Cho Chang, in this moment, but he had a feeling his fifteen-year-old self had not done a very good job heading off the topic, either.

To his surprise, Hermione simply snorted. "Yes, Harry, I am aware that you don't like to talk about this sort of thing," she said.

Harry felt a flash of irritation.

"You weren't so keen on talking about him, either, until just now," he pointed out.

"I know," said Hermione, in a small voice.

She bent over her drink and took another sip. Harry watched her, noticed how she was blinking rapidly, and felt guilty. It was one thing to have botched a date when he was in fifth year; but this was Hermione, missing Ron, and he felt a bit churlish for refusing to listen to her memories.

"Er-" he began, feeling as if he was about to jump off a cliff, but pushing himself to go forward, "I remember-when we were in second year, and we flew to Hogwarts because Dobby closed the platform. In their old Ford Anglia. That was - that was a good day."

He looked up at her as he finished speaking, and saw that she was staring at him intently, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"Until we hit the Whomping Willow," Harry added.

Hermione let out a small giggle.

"Do you remember how we fought, in third year, because of Crookshanks?" she asked suddenly, in a rush.

"Yeah, you were both idiots," said Harry. He was grinning.

"Well," said Hermione, indignantly, "so were you two when you stopped talking after the Goblet put your name out-"

"Ron's fault," said Harry promptly.

"Excuse me, you were both incredibly immature throughout the entire First Task-"

Once they got started, it was hard to stop. It didn't hurt as much as Harry had thought it would, although he sensed that they had only a limited time in which they could speak about Ron before it would start hurting again. He felt a strange desperation, to remember everything with Hermione, tonight, before it was walled off once more.

A few hours - and drinks - later, they were both still grasping at memories, eager to go on. They were stopped mid-sentence by a small, piping voice:

"Miss Granger and Mr Potter!"

Approaching them was an older man, a wizard judging by his oversized Muggle jumper and bushy little white beard. "Such an honor to see you both," he said, offering them a deep bow. A few Muggles at a nearby booth looked over in curiosity.

"Oh, please-" said Hermione, looking flustered.

"Miss Granger, word has travelled about your contributions to the New Ministry," said the little wizard, bowing again, "and I hope you will not begrudge one of the most humble in the Wizarding World to express his gratitude for your service. Needless to say, I am thrilled to hear of your recent appointment to be Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

"Thank you," said Hermione, blushing.

Harry swung around to look at her. She had not told him about this; and he had not been reading the newspapers often enough to know on his own. She held up a finger at him, without looking at him, to silence him.

"And as for you, Mr Potter," said the wizard, now turning to Harry, and his voice becoming graver, "my deepest thanks, and most sincere respect, is all I have to offer."

Harry was, by now, used to attention from strangers, if not comfortable with it. Nevertheless he was unprepared for the wizard's next words: "My son was Iapix Diggle. He died in the Battle of the Hollow-"

Diggle. Of course. One of the first battles Harry had fought as a commander; Diggle, one of the first wizards lost under his command.

"-and I want you to know that I am proud he was fighting for you when he died."

Diggle had been older than Harry, married, had children. He had been one of the older wizards whose acceptance of Harry's command had given Harry legitimacy. He had died because Harry made a hard call.

"I-" Harry's throat had constricted; for a moment he did not know how he was going to speak, but then Hermione pressed the toe of her shoe into his under the table, and he choked out, "Thank you."

The wizard bowed again. "Icarus Diggle at your service," he said.

As the wizard made his way away from them, Harry realized too late that he should have told the senior Diggle something of how good his son had been to him. He should have said-

"Harry," said Hermione, gently, and Harry looked at her. She was looking at him with mingled worry and pity.

"It's going to be like that a lot now," she said.

Harry nodded. He cleared his throat. "Diggle-"

But as soon as he started, he broke off again, realizing he didn't want to talk about Diggle with Hermione.

Hermione had mostly worked in strategy, with Ron; her guilt was over failed campaigns, not the individual deaths of wizards under her command. Harry, on the other hand, had been kept on the front lines, because he had been good at it. He had been, as Hermione had haltingly explained to him the few times he requested a transfer, _the best at it. _And so he had stayed where he was, at the front, for three years. There was no point trying to explain to her what it meant to count your failures in terms of corpses. For her, failures had been chiefly lists of names.

"Congratulations on being made Head of Magical Cooperation," said Harry, to change the subject.

"Thanks," said Hermione.

"You're not a bit young for that position?"

Hermione blushed. "I am, actually. But they - er - changed the by-law."

"Just so you could be Head?"

"It wasn't my idea," said Hermione, with the same sheepishness she had shown at his discovery of her Time Turner, in third year. "I didn't want to do it, but Kingsley said they hadn't anyone else qualified for the job at this point-"

"I think you will do a great job," Harry said, earnestly.

"Thank you," Hermione said again. She glanced up at him searchingly for a second and then said, "In any case, it's not the first time they've done fast promotion to younger witches and wizards, is it?"

Harry grunted, lifting his glass to his lips rather than answer her at once.

"You're talking about me, or you?" he asked, as he put his glass down.

"Both," said Hermione, suddenly sounding nervous.

"Because that really only applies to you, doesn't it?" Harry could hear the edge entering his voice. Diggle had roused bitterness that he had thought was long-dead. "I wouldn't have been promoted if you hadn't pushed it-"

"Dumbledore would have done the same as I, if he had been there," said Hermione.

Harry bit back a retort to this. He knew she was right: Dumbledore had always been aware of Harry's usefulness. He could not fault Hermione for seeing the same things Dumbledore had.

Hermione started to speak, and then stopped. He looked up at her. She was staring at him, her face strangely stricken.

"You know I had to," she whispered.

"Yeah," Harry answered. His voice sounded strangely hollow. "I know."

"You were the best-"

"I know," Harry said again.

The old phrase made him feel embarrassed: he shouldn't bring this on Hermione, make her question herself like this, about something he had allowed her to do him. Because he had allowed it, after all. She had pushed him, but he had let her. And she had enough burdens of her own to add him to the list.

"Look, don't worry about it," Harry said abruptly. "We did what we had to do."

Hermione nodded, hesitantly. She was still staring at him with wide eyes, so he forced a smile at her.

"You know," she said, letting out a small hiccupping laugh, "I can tell when you _fake_ smiling by now, Harry."

Harry grinned genuinely at that, and she returned it uncertainly.

"It's late," Hermione noticed, her eyes catching on a clock behind Harry's head. "We should probably head home- the inauguration rehearsal is tomorrow morning..."

Harry nodded and drained his glass. She tilted hers up to her mouth, winced, and put it down again without finishing it.

"When are you leaving St Mungo's?"

"After the inauguration," Harry said. He had decided this a while back: the inauguration was the last fixed point on his horizon, after which the world was blank.

"Where," Hermione began tentatively, "are you going to go?"

Harry shrugged. "Grimmauld Place, I suppose."

"Is that... where you want to go?"

Harry began to pull on his coat. "My housing options are a bit thin on the ground, Hermione."

Hermione nodded, still watching him. She seemed to be weighing something, but instead of speaking, she twisted to retrieve her coat from the crack in the booth.

"Well, in any case, I know the Ministry will be happy to finally be able to have you on board," she said, as she pulled on her coat.

Harry paused in fastening buttons for a fraction of a second as he realized what she had just said. She spoke as though his working at the Ministry was predetermined; which, in fact it had not been; Harry had rather blankly foreseen the oncoming months as ones spent alone with Mrs Black and Kreacher. Had she asked, rather than told, him of work at the Ministry, he would have declined out of hand. But instead, she had passed him information like an inconspicuous lifeline.

Nevertheless, Harry asked warily, "What sort of work?" He envisioned, with a kind of weary horror, the Defense office to which he had been frequently summoned during the war.

"Well, I saved a desk for you in the Department of Magical Games and Sports," said Hermione briskly, standing up. "I hope that's all right with you?"

She had her face averted, but he had the impression she was hiding a smile.


End file.
